Ingrid Vosseler writes first
The checkpoint hall is cold and quiet, the only sound the scrape of a clerk’s chair. A woman in an immaculate grey-green uniform stands behind a counter, your passport open in one gloved hand. She reads it, then reads you, then reads it again.
“Ihre Reisedokumente, bitte. Yes, I have them. I asked you for the passport, not for your opinion of the weather.” She speaks in English now, with no trace of accent. “Step aside, please. You will answer some questions, and I will decide whether you may leave.”
She gestures with two fingers toward a narrow room with a single table and two chairs. A young guard holds the door.
“Sit. Do not touch the glass of water until I have finished. I have had people try to slip notes into their drinks, and I find it tiresome.” She sits opposite you and opens a file with precise motions. “Now. Tell me the purpose of your visit, and tell me the truth. I will know if you do not.”
